


two corpses, everything's fine

by onyourleft



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Carric Vassandra - Freeform, F/M, Humor, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft/pseuds/onyourleft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric and Cassandra travel to the #1 vacation spot in all of Thedas, the Anderfels, and have to Scooby-doo their way through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't have done this without [awwpants](http://archiveofourown.org/users/awwpants), who told me she believed in me every time I got lazy. She also whipped this fic into shape. Thanks pal. 
> 
> Title is from CLUE.

> Inquisitor Adaar,  
>  The Inquisition has grown from a bumbling force of heretics into a formidable power to be feared. We have seen your influence spread across Thedas, and we would hope you carry the Chant of Light with it. We in the Anderfels feels the loss of Divine Justinia more than most. Although the Anders would proudly give their support to such a righteous cause, we will not make any alliances until we have spoken in person. Only with a high-ranking member of the Inquisition will we discuss these terms. We cannot offer more than words at this time.
> 
> Maker guide you,  
>  King Grivaud V

Varric assumes he’s standing at the war table because every time the word “Anders” is mentioned, he’s the first person everyone turns to. The alternative is that he is a very important member of the Inquisition with valuable input and opinions, but that’s not a theory he’s willing to stand behind. He’s waiting for them to suggest that _he_ be sent to the Anderfels, which he will politely but very forcefully decline, when the Inquisitor says “Alright, let’s send Cassandra to represent the Inquisition,” and everyone seems perfectly content with that.

“Hold on,” he says, “that’s the worst idea you people have ever come up with. You want to send _Cassandra,_ of all people, to make this deal?"

Inquisitor Adaar looks at him as though she can imagine an ending to this where the King’s face is not caved in and they actually achieve an alliance with the Anders. He does see Josephine looking a little worried behind her, and decides she’s the most likely to see reason.

“Josephine, you know she can’t handle a business deal like this. Imagine the political ramifications of her _fist_ through the wall when they try to arrange terms."

“No, the King asked for the highest ranking Inquisition agent we could send, and Cassandra is just that. She’ll do fine,” Josephine says, but doesn’t look entirely convinced of what she’s saying. Leliana has already waved over and sent away a scout to inform Cassandra.

“There has to be someone else you can send,” he insists.

Adaar looks like she could be considering Vivienne, or her advisors, or anyone better suited to the task, but Leliana steps in and says, “Alright, Varric, you can go with her.”

Everyone looks at Varric and nods approvingly, except for Cullen, who is looking away so no one will notice him laughing under his breath. Varric isn’t quite sure what he did to deserve this.

“That’s…” he exhales loudly. “You took the worst idea you’ve ever had and you made it worse. I can’t believe it.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about, you gave us advice and Leliana took it. I think it’s a great idea,” Adaar smiles at Leliana, then at Varric. “You can keep each other in check. Go tell Cassandra.”

Cullen makes a vague attempt to disguise his laughter as coughing and turns away completely.

-

Having put together his supplies as slowly as physically possible, Varric finally stops by Cassandra’s loft in the smithy and gives her the unfortunate news. Cassandra stares blankly into the distance, seeking sympathy from some unseen third party. “Have I done something wrong?”

Varric clutches his chest and staggers back a little. “Maker, right through the heart,” he chuckles, but Cassandra just shakes her head and returns to packing her things.

“I don’t want this any more than you do, believe me. I think the Inquisitor thought we looked like we were having too much fun and decided to give us some busy work.”

“Hm,” says Cassandra, folding a pair of socks.

“Valid point, but I have to ask. Of all the places to request an alliance with the Inquisition, why did the Anderfels have to speak up? And Nightingale actually _agreed_ to send a cranky Nevarran royal and a very, very weather-sensitive dwarf to seal the deal?”

“I have no idea why Leliana wanted you to come along.” Cassandra slings her bag over her shoulder and starts toward the door. “I could do this on my own.”

Varric follows after her, “No, see, I told them you wouldn’t make the greatest negotiator, and they took that to mean I was volunteering.”

Cassandra glares back at him as she walks but without any real heat. “Oh? Such little faith in me?”

“What would you do without me, Seeker?” he tries.

“Probably have a better time."

-

They make the final leg of the long journey into Hossberg on horseback, and Varric makes sure Cassandra knows _just_ how much he hates it every step of the way. Occasionally she acknowledges him or banters back, but for the most part she stays focused on the mission, which makes Varric feel like the useless half of their pair, and he tones it down until they reach the outskirts of the city.

The sky has been an ominous mess of green and orange and black since they entered the Ander borders, but there’s no mistaking the trails of smoke from old fires all throughout the city. What first stands out are the random houses missing entire walls and the castle sitting in the distance above it all, looking as though it’d been chewed on by a dragon.

Cassandra dismounts and leads her horse cautiously along the beaten-up cobblestone roads, and Varric follows suit.

“There are still lights in some of these houses,” Cassandra says quietly.

“Do you think they were attacked before we got here?” Varric replies just as quietly, not sure why they’re whispering.

“Perhaps, but by what?”

Varric shrugs a bit and shouts, “Hello?”

The lights in the windows around them go out immediately and in the distance he can hear a few doors slam shut.

“Venatori? Red templars?” Cassandra picks up her pace. “Corypheus? Would Corypheus have a reason to attack here?”

“He’d probably be at Weisshaupt for the Wardens, not at the capital.”

As they enter further into the city, into the marketplace which in stark contrast to the rest of Hossberg has been much better cared for, they start to see people milling about, heads down and bodies rigid. There are stands with haggard shopkeepers selling fine sculptures, spices, luxuries, and…

Varric stops walking. “…Rotten fruit?”

Cassandra stops as well, and he nudges her to point out the stand. “That woman is selling rotten fruit.” They watch as a mother and son walk up to the vendor, silently hand her some coin, and take a handful of molding plums.

“Well,” Cassandra tries, but can’t think up an excuse for these clearly troubled people. They’re trudge around, aimless and from the look of it, working to see who can make the least amount of sound in the entire kingdom.

Varric tries to speak to the mother and son as they pass by, but “What happened here?” is all he manages before the woman gasps, tugs her cloak further over her head and drags her son along.

“Nice tact—“

Varric cuts her off, “I said three words.”

They take another look around at the people, hoods down, gazes turned, and avoiding them like they’re somehow more appalling than the smell coming from the food stands.

“Let’s just head to the castle,” Cassandra says and he nods and follows after her.

“I knew this place was supposed to be a shithole, but this…”

“Hossberg is supposed to be the only well maintained part of this country. How could it have fallen apart in a matter of days?”

Varric sighs louder than is entirely necessary. “This makes me miss Kirkwall."

-

The massive statues of Andraste on either side of the castle doors stare down at Varric and Cassandra as though _they’re_ the ones doing something wrong. There are bits chipped out of the marble, and when the only thing Varric knows about the Anderfels is their dedication to faith and incredible craftsmanship, it adds to his feeling that something is more than a little wrong here. No one comes to greet them and there are no guards posted on either side of the door.

“We’re not gonna get smited if we knock, right?” he asks, almost half serious, while Cassandra goes right ahead to slam the knockers shaped like Andraste’s face.

“In this weather, it’d be a blessing,” Cassandra grumbles, repeatedly slamming the handle, and for the first time on their trip Varric feels like he’s made a connection with her. A squirrely elf with an unfortunate mullet opens the door, hunched and avoiding eye contact. More of the same. He doesn’t speak but stands back and gestures for them to enter.

The inside of the castle is only slightly presentable, with guards lined against each wall, stiff as statues, and servants sneaking between rooms like they’re afraid to be seen. Everyone seems to be ignoring the gaping hole in the ceiling, so Varric decides to do the same and steps over bits of rubble as politely as he can. Cassandra is kicking the rocks aside and glaring at each guard individually, but she manages to keep up with the elf leading them to the throne room.

“Inquisition!” the King roars as soon as the doors are opened. The roar devolves into a booming laugh as Varric gets a good look at him. His hair is a frazzled blonde mess, but his clothes are neatly tailored and a group of richly-dressed nobles surround him, waving brightly decorated paper fans and smiling behind them. The throne room itself has even floors, decorated rugs, and a glimmering chandelier, as though whatever was eating away at the rest of the castle decided to leave the room alone.

“Your majesty,” Cassandra starts, stepping forward and beginning to bow, but the King keeps speaking.

“Inquisition! Did you not receive the second letter we sent?” Every word is almost a laugh and he waves to the elf, who scurries to stand beside him. “We don’t need you here! There is to be no deal, but we love guests, oh,” he turns with arms outstretched to the nobles around him. They nod eagerly and smile even brighter. “Oh, we love guests, so we would be honored to have you stay.”

“Your majesty, the state of the city,” Cassandra tries again.

“Our honored guests! Fensen!” The elf beside him snaps to attention. “Won’t you show our honored guests their room?” Fensen nods and hurries back to them, gesturing vaguely to his left.

“Your majesty?” Varric says, as if it’s worth trying a third time, but the elf shakes his head urgently and Varric shuts up. He looks over at Cassandra, who is staring at him like he has the answers, somehow. He can only give her a half-assed shrug as Fensen drives them out of the throne room and into the guest wing.

“Oh, we love guests…” he hears the king saying as they leave, every noble around him cooing and fanning and giggling, “yes, we love guests.”

The halls are drafty and cobwebs droop down low enough that Cassandra has to push them aside as they walk. The elf is twitchy, wringing his hands together and trying to even out his breathing. Varric sees no point in questioning him, it’d only scare him even more, and none of the servants he’s seen thus far seem likely to talk.

“Is the king on lyrium, are _we_ on lyrium, or is this blood magic?” he asks Cassandra, and notes that Fensen jumps slightly.

“I cannot tell what caused this,” Cassandra says, at this point leaning down to keep the spiderwebs out of her hair, “but how could the rest of Hossberg be so largely affected?”

“ _Powerful_ blood magic?”

“There would be a lot of blood involved in something like this. We should see if any of the—“

Fensen stops abruptly to unlock a door on their right, then he thrusts the key in Cassandra’s hands, and runs off. It would have been exciting, Varric thinks, if the elf had led them to some sort of clue, but it's just the guest suite. Disappointing. There’s a common room and two bedrooms on either side of it; they step into one to see the ceiling completely caved in. Whatever remnants of the bed that was there stick sadly out of the cobblestone.

Cassandra continues slowly, “As I was saying, we should see if there are any villagers missing around Hossberg. Someone in the castle is most likely—“

“Cassandra,” Varric stops her, and she looks at him innocently. “I know what you’re thinking, but I am not sleeping in here.”

She drops the act immediately and walks out.

-

“This is hilarious. I feel so bad for these people, but this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Cassandra stops staring long enough to punch him in the shoulder, but he still doesn’t feel that bad.

“See? You can’t even come up with anything to say. There’s _nothing_ that can be said about this. This is the most bizarre shit you’ve ever gotten me involved in.”

“I’m…” Cassandra closes her eyes. “I’m really trying to think.”

“Okay,” Varric laughs, “but try not to smell. Maker’s breath, this is amazing.”

Cassandra finally builds up the courage to step out of the doorway and into the dining hall, where there are two seats open on the King’s left waiting for them. It’s a good thing they’re the guests of honor. The food by the King looks incredible, large slabs of meat and bread and cheeses. At the center of the table are tired looking fruits and something that vaguely resembles a spit-roasted boar. At the far end of the table, where a very sad group of nobles is sitting and Varric and Cassandra are _not_ , are heaping plates of rotten vegetables, a cornish hen that is attracting flies, and several unidentifiable quiches that are varying degrees of grey or burnt. Varric is prepared for a night to remember and it absolutely delivers.

They get through the appetizer just fine, a strawberry salad that Varric pointedly does not eat the strawberries out of. Cassandra doesn’t touch hers.

“And she thought, somehow, with my broken ankle and the Inquisitor’s gaping chest wound, that we would be able to take on not one, not two, but three bears,” Varric says. “Great bears. _Alpha_ great bears. Real mean, with something to prove. Our mage was unconscious back at camp, I was about to pass out from the pain, and the Inquisitor might’ve already been dead-- we couldn’t tell.” He pats Cassandra on the shoulder. “And the Seeker here managed all three bears, by herself, alone, one hand tied behind her back. It was incredible. Later, when I woke up, she told me that never happened. It was a pain-induced hallucination. I had passed out trying to leave the camp.”

Cassandra doesn’t laugh at all, but she’d been there and he’d told the story a dozen times since. The King, on the other hand, slams the table and throws himself back with the force of his laughter, clapping loudly. It is a great story.

“Look at this dwarf!” He shouts, ecstatic, “I love this dwarf!” Most of the people at the table seem relieved someone else has taken the spotlight so they can relax and continue not eating. Varric can at least spare these people that.

“I’ve never had an easier audience than you, your majesty.”

The King has stopped breathing from laughter.

The third course is where things go downhill. Varric is running out of ideas and looks to Cassandra for help, only to see her staring at the man directly across from them. Varric recognizes this as the man who has successfully eaten everything served to him thus far. He nods to them, pulls a flask out of his coat pocket, and tips it into his soup.

“Oh,” Cassandra says, like she’s had a revelation.

“No,” Varric attempts.

Cassandra snaps at the waiter with the wine bottle, and when he goes to pour into her glass she snatches the bottle out of his hands and drinks directly from it.

“Cassandra, please,” Varric is laughing too hard to get it out in one breath, "don’t tap out now, I need you. You can do this, Seeker.”

“No,” Cassandra sighs, dumping some into her soup and then ignoring the soup completely. “You are doing fine, Varric. I’m sure you can do this on your own.”

He can, but that’s not the point, and she knows it.

-

Sleeping is awful. The giant hole in the other room is letting the heat in and Varric has to stay half-awake to keep himself from rolling into the sword Cassandra had stabbed through the bed to stake her claim. 

What’s less awful is waking up to see Cassandra, hair down, limbs spread wildly across the bed, a bit of drool pooling under her cheek. He sits up to stare at the sunlight pouring through the very, very stained glass and contemplates this, because as much as he commits it to memory, no one will ever believe him.

Knowing he won’t be able to get back to sleep, he drags himself to the shattered mirror above the dresser to tie up his hair. He briefly considers finding somewhere private to change, but hears Cassandra snore gently behind him and decides she drank too much to be any danger to him. The second he pulls on his boots he hears a knock at the door.

“Breakfast,” says the servant at the door, bowing as she holds out a tray of beautiful pastries and molding fruits. The smell off the fruit reminds Varric of crushed hope, lost dreams, and maybe a little bit of death.

“Thanks,” Varric says, as earnestly as he’s physically able to. He has to force himself to take the plate.

Cassandra is still sleeping when he comes back in, hand now stuffed up her own shirt and an arm slung over her eyes, and he wonders if she normally sleeps with zero inhibitions, or if she’s just that kind of drunk. He takes a pastry off the plate for himself, and then carefully grabs a strawberry by the stem.

“Rise and shine,” Varric says sweetly, waving the rotten fruit under her nose.

She immediately swats his hand, knocking the strawberry so hard it splats against the wall. She barely opens her eyes before groaning loudly at him and rolling over.

“The sooner you get up, the sooner we leave.”

Cassandra throws an open hand out. He places a nice-looking apple tart in it and she starts eating with vigor. Her voice is muffled through the food, “If the fruit is rotten, what’s in the pastry?”

Varric stops mid-bite through his blueberry danish. “Please don’t ruin this for me, Seeker, these taste really good.”

“Sorry,” she grumbles, not even slightly sorry, and finishes it in one bite.

Varric brushes the crumbs off his hands and starts gathering his things. “So—"

Cassandra struggles to sit up, and it doesn’t have the urgent effect she was probably going for. “We can’t leave now,” she says incredulously, as if they can’t or shouldn’t leave _immediately._

He shakes his head, laughing. “Are you suggesting we take the fate of the capital into our own hands? The Inquisition can send in experts. Everyone’d be better off that way.”

“These people are in immediate—“ Cassandra yawns, and starts pulling up her hair. She works quickly and without mistakes, and if her eyes weren’t shut so tightly against the sunlight Varric wouldn’t even know she was hungover. “These people are in immediate danger, and we can handle it before the Inquisition can send anyone else. If we investigate efficiently we can find the source and eliminate it.”

“That easy, huh.”

“Why not?” Cassandra still hasn’t opened her eyes. She winds the braid into a halo and pins it, and when she throws her hands back down into her lap Varric realizes he’d been staring with more interest than he’s proud of.

“The whole thing just seems tiring and crazy and, I don’t know. Malnourishing?”

“Hm,” Cassandra says, holding her hand out again, and Varric gives her another pastry. “It will be fine. I want to know what’s going on.”

-

They split up to cover more ground, which leaves Varric searching the servants quarters, where most of the servants either actively avoid him or pretend he doesn’t exist. In comparison to the guest suite, their quarters aren’t much better. The stone roof is caving in, the foundation is cracking, and the wood floors are dotted with termite holes and what looks like water damage. Though there are fewer cobwebs, which is nice. He watches door after door slam shut and lock as he walks down the corridor. The locks would be easy enough to break, let alone pick, but he’s not here to scare them. At least, he doesn’t have to just yet.

He catches the kitchen staff by surprise when he creaks open the door and they have nowhere to run, and so they’re forced to act casual and focus very hard on the food they don’t need to be preparing in the middle of the afternoon.

“Anybody here that actually wants to talk to me?” he says into the room. A few cooks shuffle around the stove, setting out pans and re-stoking the fire. The servants sorting the ingredients work diligently, but there’s one elven girl stuck without a bag of vegetables and she accidentally looks at Varric, then quickly at the ground, but it’s too late.

He steps up to her and she grabs a broom out of the corner to wring her hands around. “Hey, what’s your name?” he says gently. She shakes her head, so slightly he almost misses it, and turns away to sweep. When Varric looks away from her he catches the cooks staring before they can turn back to the fire.

He inspects the food the nervous servants are sorting, some bags fresh, others rotten. “No one objects to the food quality, here?” No one even looks at him, so. He peeks into the larder, and finds a disappointing lack of suspicious apostates or demons.

Varric sighs for a very long time, trying to make his exit as theatrical as possible. “Yeah, well, if anyone has anything they want to tell me _privately,_ I’m stuck here ’til I get to the bottom of this."

On his way out he sees the woman who had brought breakfast standing all alone in the corridor inspecting her nails, and he sneaks up to her. She notices him at the last second and the look on her face turns into abject horror.

Varric manages to get a syllable in. “I—“

“Stop,” she whispers, desperate, backing away. “Stop asking questions. I can’t be seen speaking to you.”

Varric follows after her, careful not to get too close. “Just tell me why, I can help you. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

She backs into one of the bedrooms and slams the door in his face. The investigation, he thinks, could not be going any better than this.

Meeting back at the suite with Cassandra proves that things are going even better than he thought when she tells him, “I couldn’t find the king.”

“Why?”

“He must have gone out?” She crosses her arms and leans against the dresser. He realizes he’s imitating her stance halfway through doing it but it’s too late to stop. “None of the guards would speak to me, and the nobles are all missing, as well.”

“So, they’ve either been kidnapped, or they’re off hunting…” What do people hunt in the Anderfels? He can’t imagine anything surviving the climate. “…fish,” he finishes.

She snorts at that, as if she could do any better. “We should investigate the city, see if there are any other missing people." 

“Alright,” he says. With the determination and hardworking spirit Cassandra normally displays, it’s not like he has any choice.

-

Cassandra steps out of the hovel she’d been digging through, muttering to herself and mussing her hair. “What do we know so far?"

Varric follows her lead to the next home along the dirt road, and does an excellent job not pointing out the hair caught on the wrong side of her braid. “Nothing,” he says.

“Some sort of curse, perhaps?"

“You’re right, an evil curse. Hossberg is built on an abandoned dwarven thaig, that's common knowledge throughout all of Thedas."

“It could be spirits? The veil seems thin here. We saw enough rifts on our way across the country.” Cassandra takes a quick look through a window and keeps walking when she sees a family of four busy with chores inside.

"The spirits of all the dwarves that were betrayed he—“ he restarts when he comes up with something better. “This isn’t Hossberg, this is an illusion. We’re in the Fade."

“There are no rifts around the castle…” She stoops at a dry, struggling garden. “...the food?"

Varric knocks at a lonely wooden hut and no one replies. “The food isn’t real. Nothing is real. _We_ aren’t even real."

“No, we’ve been eating the food, we seem to be fine…"

The door lock to the hut is broken and the half-eaten, spoiled dinner laid out on the table suggests that someone left here in a hurry. Surprisingly, it’s one of very few houses on the outskirts of town that show any sign of foul play. Plenty of people mill about now, accustomed to the warrior princess and shouty dwarf stomping around and asking everyone what’s going on, though that hasn’t made anyone more cooperative. “Fate brought us here,” he gasps. "It’s all connected— don’t you see, Cassandra?! We’re players in someone else’s game!"

“W—“ Cassandra puts down the letter she was inspecting as if she just noticed he was standing in the room with her. “Are you sure the food isn’t affecting you?”

“No,” he sighs, crossing the room and trying to read it upside-down. It’s a personal letter, nothing of importance. “Just having fun.”

“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” she says, and walks out of the house.

Despite not finding a lead, they’re both in high spirits. Thinking about it, Varric’s not sure why, because he was coerced into joining his least favorite Inquisition member to negotiate for an alliance with the _Anderfels,_ and it turned into… this. Well, that’s not entirely fair to Cassandra, because if he’s being honest he doesn’t like Solas that much. Still, they’re walking together back towards the marketplace, and the sky has cleared from its evil orange to a pale blue, and the sun is warm on his face and it’s not a bad day.

“You know, Varric,” Cassandra says, ruining everything, “for all your bullshit you haven’t actually complained much this trip."

His fallback plan for a situation like this (the Anderfels) would be to complain about the weather. But he had just finished establishing that it’s a beautiful day, so he can’t do that.

He sighs instead. “I know, I’m really off my game today.”

Cassandra shrugs and smiles up toward the sun, basking. Her skin glows a bit, and Varric tugs her down so he can fix the hair that had fallen out of place earlier. After that she looks a little _too_ nice, so he elects to stop looking at her and she stops looking at him and they walk in silence until they hit the noble’s district.

A tall blue villa with elaborately carved marble fixtures is practically calling to him. Not a single Andraste engraving has been chipped away, it appears to have four walls and a roof, and the front door isn’t busted in. Cassandra follows close behind as he picks the lock and steps in.

Everything inside is completely intact, with plush leather furniture, shining tile floors, a slightly terrifying statue of Mafareath in the corner, and a _recently_ used fireplace. He couldn’t have dreamed up a better conviction than this. For a job well done he jumps back into an enormous armchair and props his feet up on the table.

“I know I said ‘don’t let me stop you,’ but this is breaking and entering.”

“The door was unlocked.”

Cassandra doesn’t look impressed. “You unlocked it.”

“ _Semantics,_ ” he scoffs, and then, to get her off his case, “check out that staff on the windowsill.”

She crosses the room to pick it up and inspects it carefully. “How many restrictions are placed on mages in the Anderfels?”

Unfortunately, neither of them know the answer to that, and Cassandra forces him to get out of the nice armchair to head back to the castle, where there are no armchairs, and he won’t actually get a chance to relax.


	2. Chapter 2

Their second dinner Varric decides to take a different approach. He goes through his usual story routine, and after everyone laughs politely he transitions into something more serious.

“Your majesty, Lady Pentaghast and I have been doing a bit of snooping,” he says, keeping his lighthearted tone, "and we found a surprising amount of townspeople missing. Servants, too. Do you normally work with such a small staff, or is everyone on vacation someplace nicer?” He chances a glance at the rest of the table. Every noble has stopped what they’re doing to stare at him, and even Cassandra is looking at him like she’s doubting his plan.

The King draws his attention back with a booming laugh. “Were you a jester in your last life?”

“Oh, it gets better. We found hints of blood magic—“ Cassandra is tugging at his sleeve under the table but he swats her away. “Any chance you’d like to tell us what’s going on?”

The King just laughs some more and wipes his eyes. “So good,” he wheezes, “so good.”

When Varric turns back to see what Cassandra wants, the nobles look as though they’re seconds away from jumping over the table to shut him up. He opens his mouth to test this theory, but Cassandra grabs his hand and digs her nails into his palm. Not enough to hurt, but enough for him to take a hint.

“I love a good joke myself, your majesty,” Varric grumbles, conceding. Immediately the tension clears and the nobles go back to pretending to eat their duck a l’orange, with varying quality l’orange, and the King turns to the noble on his right to start chatting him up.

“You’re really pushing your luck,” Cassandra whispers.

“You’re still holding my hand,” Varric retorts, and she’s so stunned by his genius comeback that it takes her a second to let go.

She clears her throat and waits a moment before starting again, less accusatory this time. “You know the King will not give us anything. What were you trying to do?”

“Force some of the nobles to show their hand. I couldn’t tell if any of them looked more nervous than they normally do, but maybe they’ll be more willing to talk if we corner them. You’re good at that.”

“Are you _encouraging_ me to interrogate people? I never thought this day would come."

“If you don’t want to make a big show like I’ve been doing every meal, then yeah, you can rough up some nobles for me.”

“Honestly, it’s been hard not to speak up, but...” Cassandra looks down to pick at her food and smiles so slightly Varric isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the light or not. “You took charge rather quickly. And you’re doing fine.”

He’s a little distracted by the way she’s not looking at him and maybe-smiling. “People are in danger. I have to stop being a lying snake long enough to help, don’t I?”

The smile disappears and she meets his gaze for a second before Varric registers that the King is trying to get his attention.

“Master Tethras, would you care to go fishing with us the next time Count Baer can spare us his boat?” Baer raises his flask at the mention of his name.

“Of course,” Varric says graciously, “especially since I don’t have a choice."

“Splendid!” The King immediately returns to talking the ear off the bearded man unfortunately seated right beside him, about the best spots to catch rainbow trout, or something. Varric has stopped paying attention to look at Cassandra pointedly because he’s so right, all the time. Whatever emotion she was trying to express earlier is gone; Cassandra responds with the most dramatic sigh he’s ever heard, and starts waving to the waiter holding the wine.

“Aw, Seeker, no, I don’t want a repeat of last night,” he groans.

“I promise not to drink myself into a stupor this time.”

“Are you lying to me?”

They both watch the waiter fill her glass to the brim, and Cassandra gives him a sideways smile. “Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”

Throughout the rest of dinner Varric does an excellent job of intercepting the waiter, pouring out Cassandra’s glass when she’s not looking, and sometimes, drinking it for her. The two of them only get moderately buzzed and when they both manage to walk away from the table in a straight line he considers that a job well done. The man with the flask breaks from the group of nobles heading for the guest wing and greets them.

“Count Leonard Ludwig von Baer of Laysh,” he says with a flourish, “pleased to make your acquaintance at last.”

Cassandra crosses her arms and keeps a straight face, despite the name. Varric isn’t quite sober enough for that. “Finally, someone speaks,” she says, nearly an accusation.

“It’s not…” Baer glances over his shoulder to see the other nobles crowding around the door to the guest wing, but staring back at them suspiciously. “It’s not in anyone’s best interest to speak up. But do not think we are oblivious to what is happening here.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Varric says, imitating Cassandra’s stance again.

Baer lowers his voice to a whisper, but tries to keep up his jovial appearance. “I can’t help you. Not much, anyway. I’ve heard the servants whispering about one of their own being a maleficar. If I had as little regard for my well-being as you two apparently do, that’s where I would look."

Varric nods slowly, wondering if the staff they found earlier has everything or nothing to do with this. But it’s beginning to look a lot like blood magic. “Alright, I’ll see if I remember that in the morning.”

The man shakes their hands with a finality that Varric can’t bring himself to care about, and then rejoins the cast of nobles that are trying to pretend they weren’t watching the entire time.

“So,” Varric says, “in the morning—“

“I’m feeling quite good. We can start in a few hours, when everyone has gone to sleep.”

“We’re snooping in the middle of the night? When we could be sleeping?”

“That’s what I said.” She walks off, decision made.

No matter how much Varric has been story-telling and lock-picking and interrogating for her, she’s still the one in charge.

-

The servants quarters are even more grim in the middle of the night than he previously imagined possible. He _really_ would’ve preferred going back to bed and dealing with this shit when their shadows _wouldn’t_ be crawling up the walls and the servants would be less likely to kill on sight. That’s not a guarantee, but it’s good to be prepared.

Each bedroom they pass is locked shut, lights out. At the end of the corridor, however, green light glows around the edges of the kitchen door ominously, and he takes his time to reach it. He stares at the doorknob. Cassandra nudges him pointedly, as if she doesn’t know it’s unlocked.

Well, all things considered, he’s lived a good life.

He cracks open the door half an inch and peeks in. All the elven servants Varric remembers seeing before are circled around the table at the center of the room, eyes shut and hands clasped; the eldest is murmuring some elven words he can’t recognize. There’s a circle of veilfire candles on the table, and the fact that the elder is now repeating himself is giving Varric some bad signals.

Cassandra leans down to whisper in his ear, “If so many are in here, they may have left a room unoccupied,” and he resists the urge to jump.

“Yeah, I remember them, they’re over here.” He shuts the kitchen door gently, then leads her to the right bedroom and sets to work picking the lock. “What do you think that was?”

“It looked… like a vigil? Except for the veilfire, I could not sense any magic being used, but I cannot be sure.”

Thankfully, no one is inside to jump out and zap them when he opens the door. They break off to search the room as quickly as possible, because no matter what it was they just witnessed, he’d rather not be caught snooping through possible maleficar possessions. Nothing is out in the open, nothing suspicious in the drawers, no runes or staves or bloody daggers lying around, so he stoops to search under the beds. There are a couple unmentionables that will be useful to joke about later, but nothing of immediate use. He flips back bed covers, checks under pillows, and starts to get seriously worried that he can’t hear the old elf chanting anymore.

He stands back, sighing, before catching the eye of a painting of King Grivaud V on the wall. He steps to the side a bit, but he’s literally caught the painting’s eyes. As he walks, they follow him around. “Seeker, this painting is looking at me.”

He doesn’t turn away but he can tell that Cassandra isn't looking. “What?”

“Look, look,” he urges. The eyes in the painting draw back and then the peepholes close shut. Cassandra is reading something when he turns back around. She glances up and waves him over, and he politely hurries to her side like a good partner would to see that they’re letters, written entirely in elven.

“They look personal,” he whispers, and Cassandra flips through them. In the third letter is a set of diagrams of different glyphs and runes, with descriptions (in elven) that he can’t read.

“The Inquisition can translate this.”

“Great, bag it, let’s go.”

He’s already out the door before Cassandra can say another word, but the lights are still flickering from the kitchen, so he’s able to let his guard back down. When she catches up with him, he says, “The painting really was looking at me.”

She pats him on the shoulder. “You don’t take alcohol well, do you.”

He’s about to argue because that’s the most _ridiculous_ thing she’s ever said, but then he realizes she’s laughing quietly because she was joking, and he laughs back a little, too.

“I saw it, Varric, don’t worry. There are servants in that room, however, so I think it’s best we search somewhere else for now.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, “I don’t want to get shanked.”

-

Searching yields no more positive results for the rest of the night, and the second they get back to their room and Varric gets his boots off, there’s a knock at the door.

“Breakfast,” says a different servant than yesterday morning, bowing and holding out a platter. Varric shuts the door immediately, before realizing he has to open it again to take the food.

“The King wishes to meet you in the garden for tea this afternoon,” the servant says quickly, sticking his foot in the door so he can finish.

“Fine,” Varric groans, pushing hard on the door, and with confirmation the servant smiles and leaves.

Cassandra is splayed out on the bed, her sword already stabbed beside her. She’s looking at him hopelessly. “Were we out that late?”

Varric sets the tray at her feet and sits beside her. “I know, I’m so much fun to spend time with, _I_ didn’t even realize how long it’d been.”

“Hm,” Cassandra says, propping herself up on her elbows to stare at the food. “Hm.”

He finally takes a good look at it: rotten pastries, and fresh fruit.

“Andraste’s ass,” he moans and rolls back into the pillows. He hears Cassandra take a bite out of an apple. It sounds very satisfying, but Varric can’t do this right now. “Give me ten minutes to get it together.”

-

Two hours later, Cassandra rudely wakes him up and forces him to put his shoes back on.

“Did you sleep at all?” he yawns while pulling on a clean shirt.

“No. I sent the letters we found back to the Inquisition for translation.”

“And that took two hours?”

She shrugs from where she’s standing at the door, facing away from him. “It took me that long to find a messenger.”

“Alright, well, try not to fall asleep at this tea party.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Cassandra mutters, “I caught a glimpse of the _garden_ earlier.”

He throws on one of his nicer dusters and they head out. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s certainly a sight.”

She wasn’t lying. When they step out onto the weathered stone terrace, half the nobles are sitting at mostly intact marble tables and drinking tea, and the other half are watching the King attempt some kind of croquet game despite the overgrown grass and dying bushes. No one acknowledges them, except Baer, who smiles and raises his flask at them. The other men at his table are looking at him with a mix of reverence and either jealousy or contempt. Among a pile of rubble is the only other standing table, and Varric leads Cassandra to sit, because she’s not nearly as glow-y as she normally is and her eyes are red around the edges.

An elven servant pushing a serving cart offers them tea. She pours them each a cup, but when she hands them over Varric sees that it isn’t tea at all, just hot water. Suddenly the forlorn faces everyone is making as they try to drink makes sense.

“Nice,” he says, and nudges Cassandra, who doesn’t look ready for a joke. “Want some cream with that?”

She sighs and drinks it anyway. Varric’s a good person, he truly is, and as much as he’d love to keep her around for the rest of the day so he doesn't have to deal with this shit solo, he recognizes real sleep deprivation when he sees it. It’s the kind that makes your brain feel like it’s been ransacked by a horde of bandits with drinking problems, a sense of adventure, and weapons they’re using to compensate for something. Specifically. And since Varric is such a good, chivalrous person, he says, “You sure you don’t wanna just rest today?”

She meets his gaze, relieved, _thankful_ even, and opens her mouth to accept his offer when the King sidles up to their table, grinning from ear to ear. He holds out the most pitiful, near-death rose Varric has ever seen to Cassandra.

“A beautiful flower for a beautiful woman,” the King smiles, and when Cassandra accepts it, the petals crumble and fall off. _That_ is too much. Laughing so hard he can’t breathe doesn’t make him a bad person by any means— even if Cassandra is glaring at him— but she’s still holding a brown stem that no longer resembles a flower, and the King seems to find his laughter amusing, so there’s really no reason to stop. Nothing will ever be this good again. He’ll have to immortalize it in song, when he gets the chance.

“Thank you, your majesty,” Cassandra grits out, standing and pulling Varric up out of his seat by the collar of his shirt. “If you would excuse us, I would love to give _Master Tethras_ the tour of the garden you so graciously gave me this morning."

“Oh, yes, yes!” the King coos, but doesn’t move. Cassandra loops her arm through Varric’s to make her point and he wanders off to bother someone else.

Varric coughs a bit trying to catch his breath as she drags him off along the curved walkway. “Does it please you that much?” she grumbles.

“Ye— I— Seeker, _Andraste,_ is that what took you so long this morning?”

She sighs. “He was very insistent.”

“Did he show you the carnations?” he snickers as they pass a withering mess that probably used to be carnations, then points to whatever’s drooping off the edge of the gazebo in front of them. “Or— is that? I think that’s arbor blessing! Isn’t it beautiful, Seeker?"

She stops them at the far end of the garden, and lets go of his arm to lean back against a giant statue of Andraste.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, because she’s had a very long day. “This’d make a great story.”

She keeps glaring and her lips press into a thin line.

“Okay, okay, I’ll keep your name out of it, at least.” He lets out a long breath and smooths his collar where she’d tugged it; at this point he realizes he’s in trouble with her unless he gets back on task. “I’m starting to think some of the nobles are in on it. Even if the servants are involved I can’t imagine what they’d get out of...” he gestures to the whole of Hossberg, “ _this._ ”

Cassandra looks at him for a moment before talking. “I tried speaking to some of them this morning, but they avoided me as fearfully as the servants. I think you may be right, however. It’s worth searching their rooms.”

“Alright, but you're sleeping first.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’d rather you be conscious while we’re investigating.”

“I said I’ll be fine."

“Who are you putting on a brave face for?” He laughs gently. “Me?"

She doesn’t say anything immediately and he clears his throat because he didn’t mean for it to sound like whatever it just sounded like. “I mean, you don’t have to act tough around me, it’s impractical. We’re partners.”

Cassandra stares down at her boots. “I know my limits but… if we have the time."

“We can make time.” He walks over to lean on the statue, too, and nudges her with his shoulder. Up close, she’s still glow-y.

“Varric?”

“Yeah?”

“You always act like I’m going to do something horrible to you. You know that I would never do that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I know. Or, I didn’t before, but I do now.”

“You make me angry so often, and I have been cruel to you before, but I would never hurt you.”

“I know."

She looks down at him. “I promise.”

Varric isn’t sure what she wants. Their last real argument was months ago. “I believe you.”

Cassandra sighs, some of the tension visibly easing off her. Had she been worried about this? Is she _that_ tired? They turn away from each other and Varric notices a statue that’s been almost completely enveloped by a hedge. When he squints, he realizes the brown bits poking out of the leaves are roses.

Cassandra smacks him when he starts laughing again.

-

The first guest room belongs to a Countess Ilse Reinhardt, where they find multiple letters to family that summed up read, “how are you, visiting Hossberg is great, the food is lovely, the King is very hospitable, and I’ll be staying a little longer.” They’re both convinced that last part has something to do with whatever’s going on, but other than that there’s no incriminating evidence towards the Countess, so they move on. The entire time Varric keeps glancing at Cassandra to make sure she’s okay, which is silly, because of course she’s okay. He made absolute sure she slept more than a few hours, but she’s still looking worn out, so he’s doing the brunt of the work by choice. For some reason.

The second room, they find out through a note from Count Baer on the bedside table, belongs to Baroness Madeline Luft of Nordbotten. They know for a fact that she went out to explore Hossberg with the King, since the King announced her several times as he lead her by the arm out the front door. She had given Varric a desperate, begging look, and he had shaken his head and walked away. Only the Maker can help her now.

He’s digging through the odd collection of books hidden under her clothes (more issues of the Randy Dowager than he’s willing to inspect), just waiting for a demon to pop out of her sock drawer so he can get it over with, when Cassandra sneaks up to him and whispers, “Someone’s coming.”

He places everything back neatly and sneaks into the closet after Cassandra. She closes the door with a quiet clack just before he hears the main door burst open.

“A woman, two servants,” Cassandra whispers back to him, and then presses her ear to the door to listen. Varric pushes aside the dusty dresses on either side of the closet, annoyed that he can’t get closer to hear what’s going on too. Judging by the look on Cassandra’s face, something’s definitely happening.

“What is it?” She gestures for him to be quiet and scrunches up her face in concentration. They could be some of the elves from before, or they could be conspiring against the kingdom, or summoning a demon, or something like that. He never got a look at them.

“Are they all together? Are the servants threatening the woman?”

“Together, they’re talking. I can’t…” Cassandra sets her jaw.

Varric wishes he had brought Bianca with him. She’s back in the suite, alone, waiting for him to come back in one piece. He keeps one hand at his belt in case he needs his dagger, but he’s not sure how useful it’ll be against mages and demons. _Why_ hadn’t he brought Bianca?

“Oh,” Cassandra breathes, her eyes widening.

“What?”

She shakes her head urgently.

“What is it? Blood magic? Are they after us? Do they know we’re in here?”

Cassandra keeps shaking her head and she’s _nervous_ now and that’s a bad sign.

“Let’s get out there!” he hisses, “If someone’s in trouble we can just…"

Now she won’t even look at him. What could be that bad? A plot to control the King with blood magic and order him to declare war on Orlais? An update on the state of the Inquisition, which has been completely destroyed in the days since Varric and Cassandra left? The woman is secretly a Venatori magister, and she’s sacrificing the two servants, loyal to the end, so she can keep destroying the kingdom and no one will oppose her incredible power? Someone is being sacrificed right now and Cassandra would rather hide in the closet and make horrified faces than actually do anything about it.

Just then he hears a whip crack, once, twice, followed by a quiet giggle and something that vaguely sounds like, “It’s a soiree in the void tonight,” but he can’t be sure anyone would honestly say that.

He should’ve seen the signs while he was investigating and gotten out when he had the chance. Normally, this would be hilarious, but Cassandra is right in front of him, sitting down because apparently they’ve got a long while to wait, and it’s just awkward. Her distress is the only thing funny about this. He sits too, crossing his arms, and Cassandra continues to be completely silent so he can hear them giggling and he thinks, _blood magic would’ve been much better than this._

Once, about fifteen minutes in, it gets dead silent, and Cassandra reaches up to crack open the door before they hear a woman actually start barking, and Cassandra crawls underneath the dresses and lies down on her side.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping.”

She falls asleep impressively quick, all things considered, and Varric stays up because the tiny optimistic part of him thinks it couldn’t take _that_ long, but he passes out sometime after round four ends. They’ll have to interrogate her later, probably, and that’s going to suck.

He’s vaguely conscious when Cassandra shakes him awake at some ungodly hour and leads him by the hand out of the now-empty room, back to theirs, and back to bed. She doesn’t even stab the bed this time.

She’s a good partner.

-

“…and the band was incredible, the finest string instruments we have ever heard, with the prettiest young dancers in the ballroom, have we shown you the ballroom yet, Master Tethras?”

Varric looks up from the lamb stew he hasn’t quite worked up the courage to eat yet, and shakes his head.

“What a shame! Oh, but it’s not the same without all the dancing. We must have a ball, sometime. Fensen!” The elf skitters over to the King’s side. “Fensen, we have to prepare for a ball. No, I don’t care when. Baroness Luft was telling me how much she loves music. We _must_ have a ball.”

Varric rests his head in his hand and swirls his soup with his spoon. The rest of the table is eating quietly or waiting for the next course, and he sighs, because he has nothing to say. The routine is getting old, however long they’ve been here, and he can’t even bring himself to be shocked about the rotting slop he can smell from the other end of the table.

“I am so fond of our guests. It’s been such a treat. You’ve only just arrived and you’ve livened the place up, ten times over!" Varric finally eats, and it tastes fine, but it could use a little salt. “Master Tethras, don’t you think?” The King is looking at him expectantly. He nods.

How long until the next course? He finally glances at Cassandra, and the empty look on her face triggers something in him. He drops his spoon, which clatters loudly against the edge of his bowl, but Cassandra doesn’t even jump.

“What’s the matter?” she whispers, voice dull like she’s only asking out of obligation. 

Anxiety is creeping up in his stomach. He can feel that something’s wrong, the room, or the food, or something he can’t see but he _knows_ is there. “We’re becoming them.”

Cassandra just chews slowly. “That’s creepy, don’t say that.”

He tugs her down so he can whisper in her ear. “It might not be blood magic. It feels like a demon.”

She jerks away from him, eyes wide like she’d been slapped, and shoves her bowl away. “I feel it now.”

They don’t eat the rest of the night, and Varric has to push down the feeling that someone’s standing right behind him while the King goes on and on about fashion, fish, and what a laughing stock the Orleasian monarchy has become.

-

Varric wakes up with a weight on his side and nearly panics before he realizes it’s just Cassandra’s arms wrapped around him, and one of her legs slung over his waist. He realizes, after thinking about it, this is still a good reason to panic, and it also probably explains why Cassandra has been so consistent about stabbing her sword through the middle of the bed. He feels her chest pressed against his back, her breath on his ear. There’s no getting out of this alive.

His experience as a rogue has given him first-hand knowledge for what to do in almost any situation, but absolutely no idea as to whether he should try and move out of her grip and risk waking her up, or pretend to be asleep so he can still claim it was her doing, not his. _Personally,_ he doesn’t mind it. She’s warm and for once it’s a cool morning.

Cassandra sighs and Varric can’t tell if that means she’s woken up, or just fallen further asleep. He can easily tell, however, when she’s trying to pull her arm out from underneath him. He rolls over and she scrambles back to her side of the bed.

She stares at him for a good five seconds before tearing away to straighten out her clothes; Varric takes the chance to get off the bed and go stand by the window, where he tries to focus on the dried up grassland, lit orange by the sunrise, but he can’t stop himself from glancing back at Cassandra. This is the most awake he’s seen her first thing in the morning. She’s blushing, too, and that’s not really helping him think straight.

“Well,” he starts, and Cassandra sighs, dreading whatever he’s about to say, and he’s dreading it too, because he hasn't decided what that is just yet.

Before Cassandra can completely melt into the sheets from just how red her face is getting, there’s a knock at the door, and Varric is thankful for the interruption.

This morning’s breakfast is hotcakes, runny eggs, and a plate of green grapes. He wonders, stepping back inside and placing the tray down on the sitting room table, what yesterday’s breakfast was. He’s not sure he remembers. Cassandra sneaks into the room, trying to avoid eye contact so he won’t bring up _whatever_ it was that just happened between them, but Varric’s preoccupied with the fact that he’s not sure how many breakfasts they’ve actually had. How long have they been here?

“Cassandra,” he says slowly, “you sent a letter to the Inquisition, right? Why haven’t we gotten a reply?”

She looks mostly relieved he isn’t asking why she gets cuddly when she sleeps, and he doesn’t blame her, it’s number two on his list, he’ll get to it. “That was a few days ago, I wouldn’t expect a reply for a while longer.”

“How many days?”

“Well,” she stops cutting up the hotcakes to think. “I’m… not sure. I couldn’t say.”

“Maker, we thought we were on top of this, but the maleficar or demon or _whatever_ is doing this has us tied up in its shit, too.” He almost laughs at that. “You should’ve sent for backup in that letter, Seeker."

Cassandra is staring at their breakfast, thoroughly disturbed.


	3. Chapter 3

The urge to pack up and leave is almost unbearable. He’s already suggested it twice and they could be packing their bags right now, waving a half-assed farewell to the Anderfels, if only Baroness Luft of all people hadn’t decided to stop them out on the terrace after tea and tiny cakes.

She uses her paper fan to cover her mouth as she whispers, “You’ve been sneaking around.”

“And?” Cassandra says, crossing her arms. Varric hasn’t recovered from their night spent in the Baroness' closet, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“ _And_ I am willing to speak with you in exchange for your,” she clears her throat, “discretion."

“I hadn’t expected _you_ to be the one to speak up.” Cassandra looks at Varric pointedly and he pretends he’s coughing instead of laughing.

“I know many of the servants well, having been here for some time. They have told me of their suspicions— one of the elves, a maleficar.”

“Funny, Baer told us the same thing,” Varric points out, and all the color drains from the Baroness’ face.

“The Count?” she says, fanning herself. “He told you?”

“Are we making you nervous?”

“You… the maleficar…”

Cassandra shakes her head, impatient. “What can you tell us about the Count?”

“Nothing. There is nothing to tell.” The Baroness’ face hardens and she snaps her fan closed. “Pretend I never even spoke. Good day,” she huffs, and walks away.

Cassandra waits until she’s out of earshot to mutter, “I have never been so tired of a mission in my life. Remind me who sent us out here, again?”

“It was a team effort. Leliana and Inquisitor Adaar. Mostly Leliana, though.”

“I should have known.”

“She likes messing with people.”

“She _likes_ getting the job done. She knew we would be able to do this. Even if you are, by far, the laziest dwarf I’ve ever met.”

He glares up at her but her smile means it was meant in jest. Is that the level they’re at, now? “ _Someone_ had to pick the locks.”

“Oh,” she laughs, “of course, the only thing you’re good for. We should look into the Count’s room, now that we have the chance.”

He gestures for her to lead the way. “I’m good for so many things, Seeker! I’m particularly good at standing around and looking pretty.”

“I’ve noticed. Your handsome face is the only thing keeping me going,” she says, so deadpan he can’t even pretend she’s serious. They stop at Baer’s door and he brushes cobwebs away from the lock.

“Aw, I’m not even a little handsome?”

“I just said you were.”

“Yeah, but you were joking.” He finishes quickly and wraps up his lock-picking kit, and when he looks back at her she doesn’t look close to complimenting him. “It’s alright,” he sighs, kicking open the door, “I’ve got enough ego to bounce back from this.”

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for them to find something. The desk drawer is stuffed full of letters, from the Baroness and many of the other nobles that are pretending everything is normal. Underneath those, however, Varric spots a familiar set of stationary.

> Cassandra,  
>  I had my agents translate the letters you sent. They are old elven magic, and Solas informs me that some of the glyphs are used for summoning and binding demons, while others are used to dispel. Just what have you gotten yourself into? Take care, and keep us updated. We will send agents as soon as they return from the Exalted Plains.
> 
> Leliana

  


> Cassandra,  
>  A week of waiting, and still no word back.
> 
> Leliana

  


> Cassandra,  
>  Is everything alright? You never replied to our last letter. Leliana suggested we hold off our agents in case their presence would jeopardize your operation, but I’ve made the call. It has been too long without word back. Whatever cover you’re keeping, expect our agents by the end of the week.
> 
> Inquisitor Adaar

  


> Cassandra,  
>  It has been two weeks, and none of our scouts have reported back. We fear the worst. Stay safe.
> 
> Leliana

  


He exhales slowly, and notices Cassandra’s been reading over his shoulder.

“All this time, and we… we have just been sitting here, making conversation and drinking wine,” she growls, hands balled up into fists.

Varric inches away from her instinctively. “Whatever’s going on, we’re in the eye of the storm. If Nightingale’s scouts have gone missing, they have to be somewhere in Hossberg.”

“We have to find them.”

“But we can’t risk getting caught ourselves. We should wait for Nightingale to make a plan. Stirring up more shit is only going to get our agents killed, if they haven’t been already.”

“At least, we _must_ question the Count.”

She’s the most determined person he’s ever met, and that’s always been frustrating, but now it’s kind of endearing, which is weird. “Unless you want to be the main course of the next meal, you might not want to do that.”

“You might have to hold me back,” she jokes. _Weird._

“That’s what I’m here for.”

She sighs, fidgeting like she needs to take her anger out on something. He puts his hand on her arm to calm her down and, surprisingly, it works. They sneak out before Baer can catch them and just before the bell for dinner is rung.

-

This is, by far, the worst dinner Varric has ever had. He does his best not to look uncomfortable, because King Grivaud is going on and on about the dragon head he just had mounted to a plaque and Varric is supposed to be paying attention, but Baer keeps smiling at him and it’s creeping him out. There are significantly fewer guards lined around the edges of the room, he notes, though with everything going on he hasn’t paid much attention until now. A small group of servants hurry around the table to place bowls of clams and some kind of pasta in front of everyone. Baer winks at Cassandra, which is unacceptable, and also highly suspicious.

Varric is an expert in poisons, and whoever had worked on his food needs to be fired, because he barely smells it before he knows something is wrong. There’s deep mushroom in it, which is easy to disguise if you’re not a complete moron, and the grated deathroot garnish is almost an insult. Baer raises his glass to Varric, something like, ‘good luck getting out of this.’ Speaking up isn’t going to do the trick. The other nobles are trying to be subtle, glancing over expectantly, actually eating their food and making it crystal clear that they’re all in on it.

He’s been through far worse, but Cassandra picks up her fork and he has to act quickly— he takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and kicks her under the table. She whips her head around and Varric is surprised to see there aren’t any flames shooting out of her eyes. He signals a commonly known “this is poison” sign, but she’s not a rogue, and his advice means nothing to her. She’s too busy glaring to eat, but he’ll have to come up with something to get them away from the table. Maybe he can convince her they need to go? Tell everyone he’s sick? Pretend to be poisoned? Some sort of distraction?

Cassandra finally cools down and stabs a clam with her fork.

“This is an insult to dwarves!” he booms, slapping it out of her hand, jumping up, and overturning their plates. The cream sauce splashes over the table. Cassandra sits blankly, hand still held out where her fork used to be, and Varric grabs her and starts dragging her away. “We are leaving!” he yells back at the crowd. He’s never seen eyes so wide. The King is smiling, but he looks equal parts amused and frightened.

Cassandra only gets it together when the door to the guest wing slams behind them. She yanks her hand away, hissing, “What in Andraste’s name were you thinking?”

“The food was poisoned, Cassandra!"

“You could have been a little more subtle about it! The entire kingdom will be suspicious of us now.”

“I needed to get us away from that table. Whoever poisoned the food, and by whoever I mean Baer’s lackeys, will be back to finish the job.”

“But—“

“You were about to eat! I just acted on instinct.” Something about that makes her slow down.

“I’m not trying to…” She sighs and stops walking. “I’m not trying to pick a fight. I’m grateful, just…”

“I know. It wasn’t good enough.”

“What? No. You did fine. I’m not angry about that."

“Could’ve fooled me.” He crosses his arms expectantly. She almost looks guilty, like she’s the one who flipped clams all over the dead flower centerpiece back at the dining hall.

“The way you were looking at me… Varric, I was angry, but I wouldn’t have hurt you.“

It’s almost a relief that’s all she’s angry about, but it’s becoming a pattern, and he can’t figure out why she has to walk on eggshells around him. “Yeah, I know, I trust you. You just get this look in your eyes that intimidates me more than anything— and I’ve fought high dragons.” She doesn’t look comforted by this, so he reaches out to touch her arm. “It goes both ways. I wouldn’t ever let anyone hurt you,” he says, and Cassandra flushes and looks away when she finally starts to get the idea. Or, the idea he never meant to convey.

He takes his hand off her arm. If he’d been on the receiving end of a line like that, what _else_ could he interpret it as other than undying devotion? He wishes briefly he wasn’t such a charming, handsome person.

“Is… that so?”

Varric tries to come up with an excuse for everything ever until he looks at her silhouetted by the moonlight from the window, her cheeks glowing faintly red, her lips curled up at the ends in a cautious smile. He… wasn’t exactly lying. “Yeah,” he says lamely.

He kicks himself the rest of the night.

-

“That’s everything.” Varric dusts off his hands as he finishes barricading the door with every piece of moveable furniture in the room. “Unless you want to stab the pile for posterity.”

She does, right through the sofa cushions, and it makes him unreasonably happy. No matter what evil comes knocking, he’s confident staying in was the best idea. He wasn’t really looking forward to another “tea” party in the garden, anyway. Cassandra turns to head back into the bedroom and he stays to stare at the pile, trying to piece together the mystery. Where are the missing scouts and townspeople? What opportunity do he and Cassandra have to make their accusations, and their final stand? How did he end up here, stuck under some unknown influence, this far from home?

He’s just thinking, about the Inquisition and Skyhold and Kirkwall, when he notices Cassandra fidgeting where she sits on the bed. She unbraids and re-braids her hair, even though it was perfect before.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“We should talk,” Cassandra says firmly, though she looks like she’s trying to convince herself.

“About what?”

“…Us.”

Oh. “Okay,” he says slowly, stepping into the room and leaning against the dresser.

She waits for him to say something but this is the last thing he expected her to want to talk about, and the last thing he has any idea what to say about.

“You’ve… been nicer to me this trip than you normally are.”

“What can I say? I’m noticing a new side of you that I never expected to find.” He has no finisher for this. “I’m looking forward to seeing the rest of your sides.”

Cassandra looks at him with the proper amount of disgust. “That’s awful.”

“Not all of my lines are gold, Seeker.”

“Can you be serious, for a moment, at least?”

“I’m trying, I’m really not that good at this."

Cassandra crosses her legs and waits a long, long time before she says quietly, “I thought you were still angry."

“About what, specifically?”

“The way I treated you, back in Kirkwall, and when you first joined the Inquisition. I was being cruel."

He knows that, but he seems to have gotten over it much faster than she has. “You didn’t know me, then.”

“But I should have known better. I was the one who made things so tense between us. You had… _have_ the right to be angry with me."

The more he gets to know her, the more he realizes how much of everything she’s blaming herself for, except for the few times she’s had a chance to deflect it onto him for being admittedly unhelpful. Even though he’d rather not admit it, Cassandra needs to hear it. “Seeker, I stopped holding that grudge a long time ago. I know you were doing what you thought was right, and I _am_ still angry it happened at all. But... I guess I'm not mad at you for it? Things are different now. We're better, now.”

Cassandra shrugs, and Varric sits down next to her. “Somehow I didn’t think I’d be forgiven so easily.”

“Neither did I, but I’d say being stuck with me is a pretty fair punishment.” That gets her to smile, just slightly. "We’ve changed since Kirkwall. I think it’s time we put all that behind us.”

She sighs, staring down at her hands in her lap. “I want that.”

“Okay,” says Varric. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do now.

Cassandra hesitantly reaches over to hold his hand, and they sit in silence for a minute. Then she uses her free hand to cover her reddening face and Varric laughs, because this is an outcome he never would’ve expected if she had slapped him in the face and told him outright, and she shoves him a little and she laughs too.

-

He wakes up to the sound of all his hard work being undone. He stumbles out of the bedroom to see Cassandra pulling the barricade away from the door, piece by piece.

“Why?” he asks.

“There was a knock at the door,” she says, like that’s a valid explanation.

“The whole reason I put that up was so no one could get in!”

She pulls her sword out of the sofa and waves it at him, but that’s not the point. “It could be demons, Cassandra, what are you going to do then?”

“Kill them,” she says flatly, until she notices his real, actual fear, and finally holds out a piece of paper to him. “They slid a letter under the door."

_We missed you at yesterday’s tea party, we hope nothing has gone wrong. We are having a ball tonight! Please accept these formal outfits from our esteemed tailor, as well as a luncheon specially prepared by our head chef. We hope to see you tonight!  
King Grivaud V_

He finishes reading and scratches his head. “Are you being difficult just because we held hands?” When she blushes but doesn’t answer, he continues, “No, nevermind, are you opening the door because they said they left lunch out for us? After they poisoned our last meal?"

“What’s the worst that could happen,” she says, jinxing them straight to the void as she opens the door. Sitting just outside are the outfits wrapped up in paper parcels, as promised, and a tray of tiny sandwiches, sausages, and a bowl of parsley soup. When Cassandra tries to bring the food in he snatches the tray away from her and she closes the door, completely ignoring the parcels. “I have an idea of how we’ll find out who did it, but neither of us will like it."

He pushes the soup towards Cassandra when it passes inspection. “I love ideas, try me.”

“If we attend the ball, everyone will be in one place. That way when we expose the culprit in front of everyone there will be nowhere for them to run. Wherever they go we will find them.”

He thinks on that as he puts a dissected ham sandwich back together. “Dangerous, likely to get us killed, but probably our best option other than hiding in here and risking their wrath for missing one social gathering too many.”

“They may have food, as well,” she jokes, stealing a cucumber sandwich off his plate, but he’s not convinced she’s fully kidding.

“Your insatiable appetite is a bigger threat than the actual blood magic.”

“If they want to survive this, they had better feed me.”

-

Cassandra is wearing a _dress_. It doesn’t suit her— maroon is her color, not this muted grey— but it fits her nicely and the neck is cut high like her armor. She looks stunning, despite her obvious discomfort, but she’s not hearing it. 

The ballroom has vaulted ceilings and an enormous crystal chandelier, and cobwebs droop down the cracked walls. Dusty old suits of armor are lined up along the wall, each bearing the crest of a royal Anders family, but not a single living guard is in the room. The whole place looks like shit. The floors are even enough for dancing, however, and their usual group of nobles are shuffling slowly to the beautiful sounds of a three-man band.

“It almost feels like you’re courting me,” Cassandra whispers to him from where they stand by the banquet tables.

“Don’t be ridiculous, this is far more romantic. Our lives are on the line.”

She snorts at that and pours herself a glass of wine, though he only lets her drink after he’s tested it for poison. They’ve been watching for a while, waiting to see if anyone would make a move without prompting. The King looks sleepy and blissful, watching the affair and gently clapping his hands to the music. Varric sees their suspects in the crowd: Baer, who’s dancing as lively as can be, the Baroness, standing next to the King with her arms behind her back, and the elven servants, lingering around the edges of the room and looking sketchy.

“I’m putting my money on the servants.”

“Even after finding our letters intercepted by Count Baer?”

Varric shrugs. “He could be the mastermind behind it. The servants on their own would have nothing to gain.”

“So you believe it was blood magic.”

“It’d have to be. What else would all these people be going missing for?”

“I think you are right,” she says, placing her glass down and turning towards the dance floor, “I just wanted to be sure of our stance before we accused anyone. Are you ready?”

Varric looks across the room to where he stashed Bianca behind a withered up plant and sighs. “I’m starting to doubt this plan."

“Glad to hear it,” she says, taking his hand and leading him out to the floor.

Varric assumed he was going to get a dance out of this, but Cassandra weaves between the dancers right up to Baer's side. His partner leaves for the banquet tables the second they get close.

"Let's end this facade," Cassandra says. The other nobles are watching, worried, but still dancing. Baer smiles at their interruption, holding out his hands.

"My friends, do elaborate."

"Explain the strange events that have occurred in Hossberg. Missing servants, guards, and townspeople. A King who has lost his mind to some unknown influence."

"What would I know of this?"

"More than you say," Cassandra says, and nods to Varric. That's his cue, so he reaches to grab Baer from behind, pressing a dagger to his spine, and the ball slowly comes to a halt as people begin to realize what’s going on.

Cassandra raises her voice. “Answer our suspicions, or further our case against you.” The nobles collectively gasp and back away so they’re the center of attention. The King doesn’t seem phased, just as pleased as he was when they started, but the Baroness has her hand to her mouth.

For a moment, the room is silent, until Baer bursts into laughter. “Missing people? Controlling the mind of the king?” Baer wipes his eyes. “On what basis?”

“We have irrefutable proof that points towards you: demonic glyphs used by the servants, stolen letters found in your belongings, the people’s collective fear of you. It all suggests blood magic.”

Baer tenses. “Blood magic? That’s what you think?”

“What we _know,_ ” Varric insists, even though they don’t. Baer was the one who put them on the trail in the first place. Shouldn’t he…

“Blood magic?” He can feel, through his gloves and Baer’s coat, heat rising. He keeps a firm grip but Baer is definitely getting beefier than he was before.

“I keep you here, under my roof, feed you, give you games to play, and this is how I am repaid?” Baer twists away, suddenly stronger than he had been moments before.

“Not your roof,” Varric points out.

Baer erupts from within himself, bright lights as he rips from his skin to show armored scales, growing until he towers over them, and his piercing screech echoes throughout the ballroom. A pride demon.

“Oh,” Cassandra says. “Of _course._ ”

Varric makes an immediate beeline for Bianca, sure, but mostly for the far side of the room. If there’s a line to be drawn, it’s right here.

“Too stupid to see when one has outplayed you,” Baer roars, charging an energy bolt in Cassandra’s direction. She dodges away easily and steals a sword from a suit of armor. In a cliche directly cut from one of Varric’s books, she uses it to rip the bottom of her skirts up to her knees.

Baer keeps shouting, “How long have you played my game, only to search every corner of the castle and think you know what’s best?”

Varric has yet to fire, but Cassandra is doing a great job filleting the demon’s kneecaps, and he’s content to just watch. “A pride demon?” he calls, “Couldn’t the Maker cut me a damned break for once in a lifetime?”

Baer is too busy trying to keep his kneecaps together to reply, so Varric goes on. “Darkspawn magisters, red lyrium templars, an Archdemon, fine, okay! But I have never seen a shithole quite like the Anderfels.”

“I’m tired of eating rotten food!” Cassandra chimes in.

“Yeah, what the fuck! I never asked for this! I’m not doing it. Bianca’s not doing it. Cassandra, let’s just get out of here.”

“You will never leave!” The demon roars, turning to throw a lightning whip Varric’s way, which misses so badly he doesn’t even have to move. Baer immediately has to turn back to counter Cassandra, so Varric puts his hands on his hips to yell some more.

“Baer, you want the Anderfels? You can have them!”

“Varric,” Cassandra shouts, “are you going to participate at all?”

He sighs loudly, unholsters Bianca and fires a shot at Baer. The bolt bounces off the armor plate on his shoulder. “How was that?”

She groans, but her attacks aren’t having much effect either.

“I will not be defeated by fools such as you!”

“Stop trying,” Varric suggests.

The ballroom doors burst open, and the nobles that had been fumbling with the door lock scramble out of the room, the King bumbling close behind them with the Baroness in tow. In their place the creepy chanting elven servants rush in, carrying makeshift staves and immediately throwing a barrage of magic at the demon.

“A little late to the party.”

“At least _someone_ has a plan,” Cassandra calls to him, which is true. With Fensen leading them, the elves circle around Baer, raising their hands in unison.

“You knew the consequences of betrayal when I took power from your King’s filthy hands! You would face me? Knowing your kin will suffer? Knowing you caused their fate?”

The elves don’t seem to give a shit, really, because now that Varric and Cassandra have so kindly given them the upper hand they dispel Baer faster than the Inquisitor ever has.

“You will know me! You will know defeat!” Baer shrieks, and dissipates completely.

Cassandra dusts herself off as she walks over to Varric, breathing a little harder but otherwise no worse for wear. “I have never seen a better team effort from anyone in the Inquisition. Truly, you should be proud.”

“I don’t know, I thought it was pretty romantic.”

“Hearing you complain at the backside of a demon while I did all the hard work? It’s the sweetest thing you have done so far.”

“ _Distracting_ it. I was clearly distracting it. And your sarcasm hurts, Cassandra.”

“You had better get used to it.”

“Well,” he says, gesturing to her ripped skirts and bare feet, “if it’s any consolation, this is a good look on you."

She laughs at that, and they smile stupidly at each other until the King picks this moment to shuffle back into the room.

“You have fought selflessly to save my Kingdom,” King Grivaud V says, bowing his head slightly. The Baroness, still glued to his side, bows as well. “When my people recover from this, the Inquisition will have a full force of Ander troops at their call, I promise this.”

“You certainly made achieving this arrangement difficult,” Cassandra says.

“Unbelievable, to think that a demon was able to corrupt so much of Hossberg. I must see to it that my servants are punished, and my guard renewed.”

“Your majesty,” Varric interjects, "with all due respect, your servants just saved your royal ass. The demon disguised himself as a noble and managed to fit in. If you’re changing anything, it should be the company you keep.”

The Baroness pales at that, but the King looks more annoyed with Varric than he does with her. “I will bear that in mind.”

The elves are trying to make themselves scarce and just past them Varric can see the nobles peeking through a crack in the ballroom door. “Hold on,” he says, “if it wasn’t blood magic, what happened to all the missing people?”

“I was… aware, while the demon had its hold on me,” the King sighs. “They are safe, locked away in the dungeons. I will see to their release at once.”

The King goes on, about his gratitude or embarrassment or something, but Cassandra is staring into the distance sadly the whole time. Varric waits until after the King leaves to follow her gaze and see the banquet table, smashed to pieces, a giant puddle of wine under the whole mess. He puts a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

She sighs.

-

Leaving the castle is a euphoric experience. They’re leading the previously captured Inquisition scouts out of the castle at last, receiving thanks from nobles and servants alike, and Varric takes a deep breath as they step out into the heat, knowing he’s never going to have to smell this decrepit desert town again.

“For a prison, it wasn’t that bad, honestly,” a scout is explaining as they walk out towards the stables. “It was almost like they felt sorry for us. I guess, if there was a demon, they must’ve felt bad for doing its bidding, especially since they had so many of us down there, but they brought us really nice food. Orleasian style, with more than one course and everything.”

“Oh, is that where all the good stuff was going?" Varric shakes his head, chuckling. "First-class service reserved for the dungeons.”

“I’m glad to hear you were treated fairly,” Cassandra says.

“I probably gained weight,” he complains before another scout drags him away to round up the horses.

Cassandra had sent a letter ahead, something like ‘sorry for taking so long, we had our hands full with a pride demon, nothing to worry about.’ Varric suggested she add more flair, an evil enchantress, an ancient curse, a dragon or two at least, but she’s the one in charge of correspondence, so the Inquisition will be getting an honest, boring letter out of them.

There are people milling about Hossberg now, as the King had dispatched his guards to inform everyone that order would soon be restored to the capital. They don’t seem to be peddling rotten food anymore, which is a good sign. The Anderfels will recover from their demon problem and thrive once more, and Varric will make sure he’s on the other side of Thedas for the rest of his life.

The scouts find their horses and two more for Varric and Cassandra, and as they begin the ride towards Skyhold Varric stops to pluck a daisy from a dying bush.

“A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady,” he says, presenting it to Cassandra, and she tucks it behind her ear.

“This has been quite the ordeal,” she says over his laughter. “The Inquisition had better send us someplace nice next time. Though I would rather not think about a next time."

“I learned enough life lessons on this trip,” Varric agrees. “I learned a little about myself, about you, about the dangers of leaving Kirkwall. But you know the most important thing I learned?”

“What?”

“Fuck the Anderfels."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate the comments and kudos, and I hope you liked the conclusion!
> 
> You can find me and [awwpants](http://archiveofourown.org/users/awwpants) at our new tumblr, [stopsolas](http://stopsolas.tumblr.com), where we'll post art and links to our new fics. I promise there's more Carric Vassandra in my writing future.


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